


Heat of Explosion

by vargrimar



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23848381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: Satya holds his face with a tender firmness, like she wants to remind him he’s still here in the workshop and not out in Oz or Junkertown with the sun beating, beating, beating down. And it works a little. Satya, her hands, her cheek—they’re grounding.She’sgrounding.And her mouth. That’s grounding, too.
Relationships: Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Satya "Symmetra" Vaswani
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	Heat of Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> for my lovely wonderful amazing friend [nervmaid / milkcubus](https://twitter.com/nervmaid) who i adore very much because her art always ends up sucker punching me in the goddamn mouth and dragging me back to junkmetra hell so i end up vomiting out stuff like this after like a year. love you becca!!
> 
> based on this [very soft kiss](https://twitter.com/nervmaid/status/1254165004728840192) she drew because. yeah uh. i just *dramatically throws hands up in the air* couldn't help myself, okay? i'm a weak man. take pity on me.
> 
> apologies for any mistakes / errors, this small idea grabbed me by the throat and threw me on the floor and i'm honestly still reeling at the fact that this even happened. might edit it later? perfectionism might accost me in the middle of the night and make me redo it, who knows

It’s far too hot in here.

And that’s saying something because Jamison is so used to the heat.

Oz had been hot. Junkertown had been hot. The sun had always blazed and blazed, heavy and thick like a swath of fabric, bringing summers so bright they’d hurt, and it would always press that blind-warm-sticky feeling into him when he breathed, when he’d draw in the arid dust that swept across Junkertown’s dilapidated streets and let it settle like layered sediment in his chest.

Really, he’d always thought himself immune. He _thrives_ in the heat. It feels right, feels good, makes him feel like he’s got an entire lit fuse sparking somewhere under his skin. Heat is an essential component of explosive reactions, thermodynamics at work, and when the lovely cocktails of chemicals and materials combust just right, that wonderfully perfect boom, he can feel the matter-deep release of it as it billows out; it’s hot and good and it feels so nice on his face, like he’s tilting himself toward the sun, eager for its light, its brilliance, its ever-brightening fire.

This isn’t that same feeling, but it’s close. It’s close, so very close and yet not quite, and it trips something in the back of his head when sweat starts to drip down his back: that gauzy, warm-thick burn.

Hands gently close in to frame his face. One is soft, the other sleek and metal. The small lens in Satya’s left palm feels strange against his cheek, a reminder that she can bend anything she wants into being out of naught but light and sunshine, and there it is again: hot, scorching, a scald down his throat, rapid ignition from within.

“Is this all right?” Satya asks, and while it isn’t a whisper, he still has to strain to hear it over the Watchpoint’s familiar hum.

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “Yeah, it’s all right. ‘Course it’s all right. It’s, uh, it’s always been all right. I’m just…”

Jamison swallows, scrunching his eyes shut with force because everything feels a little too disjointed, too displaced, like something is applying pressure at invisible seams, trying to stretch him apart. He leans down, leans in, his own hands finding her waist, another point of pressure, and he lets them rest there, one calloused, the other crude and metal, and there’s a part of him that hopes she doesn’t mind because the hinges and the screws might bite, they’ve done that before, but if she’s already here, then maybe—

“There is no need,” says Satya.

Her hands turn him. Tilt him, subtly, just to the side, like he’s being cast toward the sun. And he leans into it, letting the warmth of her palm seep into his cheekbone and the tender press of her prosthetic fingers guide him exactly where he’s meant to go.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Very. Do you trust my judgement?”

Jamison considers it. He considers the last several months he’s spent in this place. He considers the money, the time, the people, the work. He considers the light she brings, the damage she repairs, the fervid blaze she inflicts. Whether it is from her creations or her weaponry or the liquid gold-like gleam of her eyes, Satya exudes pure power and precision and utter surety, and a small sliver of him wonders if that is part of what drew him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and he opens his eyes again. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Smiling suits her. “Good. I trust yours, too.”

“Really? Ha, I don’t think the others would like that very much.”

“I would prefer not to talk about them right now. However, I would like it noted that you are very wrong.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says.

“No, it wouldn’t.” A heartbeat. “For either of us.”

And as Satya’s hands tilt him further, Jamison can feel that sweltering press in on all sides. It’s slick, prickling, caution yellow and fire orange. It has his heart squeezing to keep up.

Desperate for something to keep him tethered, he clutches tighter at her waist. The fabric folds and rumples, the warmth of her close underneath, regulated pressure and volume.

Satya holds his face with a tender firmness, like she wants to remind him he’s still here in the workshop and not out in Oz or Junkertown with the sun beating, beating, beating down. And it works a little. Satya, her hands, her cheek—they’re grounding. _She’s_ grounding.

And her mouth. That’s grounding, too.

It’s… softer than he’d imagined. Warmer. And Jamison is reminded of reaction heat, heat of explosion, the stuff that swirls out and engulfs and bathes the place after that initial catalyst. He lets her guide the angles and he basks in the blinding glow, fragmented into strata by the force of her and her alone.

The only way he knows it’s over is when Satya’s hands shift him again. She rights him, recalibrates his alignment until his brain pools back into its proper place, and then he’s looking right into her eyes and that burns a little because she doesn’t really _do_ that, but she—she endures. He endures. And it’s like the oxygen has been scorched right from his lungs.

“All right?” Satya asks.

Jamison draws a jagged breath. His lips feel wet and he’s sure hers are much the same and that sticky-hot feel climbs down his spine and coils into a tangible cord of _want_ , but this is a fragile moment and he wants to handle it like cyclonite, with caution and care, because one wrong move and it might detonate before it’s truly ready, and he forever craves that perfect boom.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s no less hoarse than before, but a grin works at him and pries him open. “‘Course it is. ‘Course it’s all right. More than all right, honestly.”

“You’re sure?” Satya smiles. It might be small, the gentlest gliding curve, but it makes the heavy throb in Jamison’s chest feel like it has weight, like it might swell and burst.

“Very,” he replies.

And he leans in again to chase the heat.


End file.
